Hanging On
by xDragonstreamx
Summary: What should have happened instead of the all-is-chummy-and-well series finale. Tommy strikes a deal, but for the second time of his life, comes out on the losing side.


Moving On

"To New York. You could come with me. Escape from all this." Her eyes were fever-bright, and she kept brushing her fingers against her coat pocket. She'd put on too much lipstick, and it was smearing on her chin. "Tommy."

"I'm sorry, Grace." Gently, he leaned in against her face, and his lips tasted like ash and blood. They drew apart to take a ragged breath, and he was fastened to her once again, a heated groan rising up his throat as he pressed himself forward. His breath hitched, his fingers were caressing her collarbone hungrily and Grace thought _God if only he wasn't a Shelby if only if only _the fingers turned vice-like on her throat her air was cut off, she grappled in panic and her hand hit upon hard metal.

"You," she struggled out, her air constricted tightly. "Bastard."

The pressure eased off, and she could crane her neck enough to see a glimpse of remorseless blue. "John!" he called out. In strolled that sneering pasty face, spitting on her skirt and blowing smoke into her eyes as she flinched backwards. "Get in touch with Campbell. Tell him we want to negotiate."

"Yeah. Tommy, watch out for that one, ey, she's damn slippery."

"I know who she is."

Grace waited with bated breath until the door clanged shut and the footsteps of the younger Shelby became a mere echo in her memory. In a flash she removed the razor blade tucked inside her sleeves and slashed backward, only to be stopped sharp by a firm grip on her wrist. The clamp on her throat gone, her other elbow jabbed into his chest, and her free hand drew out a knife from her coat pocket. Tommy lurched back, his shirt front splattered with fresh blood. Grimacing, he aimed his pistol at her hand. Grace reached for the gun in her purse, ready to match his firepower. Her fingers came up with empty air.

Two more peaky blinders hurled into the room, weapons at the ready. "Don't bother, I'm finishing the job here." He fired at her knife, which ricocheted away to the opposite wall. Grace jumped, noting belatedly that the shot had precisely missed her hand. Somebody grabbed her wrists from behind and secured a rough knot around them. Thomas observed her coolly, then stowed his weapon away. His eyes flickered with amusement. "Not bad," he remarked. He turned away, gesturing for Robert to take her away. "But Pol would've won in the bar today, her hairpins against your gun."

* * *

"Damn it, Tommy, I told you to let the boys capture her."

"I'm not enough to overpower a single woman?"

"Not one your dick's been in, no," she chucked acidly. "Lie down. Campbell can wait in the pub and get drunk. It'll be easier to made a deal with him then."

"I'll have backup. Robert, tell them we're going in ten minutes. Pol," he turned back to her. "Get me presentable."

He lay still, barely breathing, as she took off his clothes, wiped away the stain, bound new bandages tightly around the wound. She worked on, fingers deft, eyes hard.

* * *

True to Pol's prediction, Campbell was sitting in a chair fuming, hollering at the (new) barmaid to hurry up his order. The replacement was a slim blonde-haired beauty. he poured sparkling champagne into the inspector's glass, smiling winsomely and calling him a "handsome devil of a drinker. Just my type," she whispered confidentially into his ear.

Thomas drew out a chair and sat down before Campbell, fixing him with a cool stare. "So," he spoke, "it's very simple, Inspector. You leave us to run our business in peace, and the lovely lady is yours." He leaned back, taking a drag. "Decide quickly. The clock's ticking."

"You forget, Mr. Shelby, I'm a man of justice. I don't do back-handed deals with criminals."

"Then I'm sure you wont' mind being down one spy."

"Oh, you think I care about Grace? Well, let me tell you. Grace is nothing but a defect, lost to our cause. She can go to hell for all I care. We'll never stop hounding your kind out, no matter the cost." He raised himself up to his feet in an imposing gesture, all fiery eyebrows and righteous fury. "Sergeant, arrest Tommy Shelby for the murder of one Billy Kimber."

A man slurring giddily at the next table sprang to action, drawing out a weapon. Before he could take aim, it was knocked from his grasp. Sergeant Moss withdrew a second pistol, only to find a thin sheaf of metal skimming the skin of his neck. He dropped the gun.

"Come on lads, we've overstayed our welcome!" Tommy called out, making for the door with quick strides.

The moment they stepped out of the pub, they were flanked by a ring of policemen. "Shit," John hissed, glancing at his older brother. "What do we do now?"

Thomas paused, weighing the consequences of being taken. And—there, a glimpse of gray felt on a small head, hiding indiscreetly behind a car. "Finn!" he mustered up all the strength in his voice. "Campbell's going to—"

He had the satisfaction of seeing the little head bobbing away before he was muscled to his knees and his hands tied together. Behind him, he heard John start to struggled, and took the precaution of glaring him into submission. "Those dirty bastards," his brother muttered, avoiding a backslap. "Pol and the lads will buy us out, hear me? Don't fight them."

* * *

"What?"

Every single one of them, damn incorruptible. We'll have to do this the surreptitious way, I'm afraid." Arthur's features scruffed together in frustration.

"Goddamnit," Tommy whistled with something akin to admiration. "Campbell must be paying them well to keep their integrity."

"Yeah well, Grace is safe, for now anyway. Finn got the warning to us in time for her to be moved to a safe place."

"She's not a part of the deal any more. Campbell is willing to give her up. I shouldn't have bothered—she's no use to us now that she's not a bargaining chip."

"Are you sure, Tommy?"

"For God's sake, Arthur, I'm not some lovelorn boy."

"Pol thinks you are."

"I knew she wasn't honest about who she was. I just—hell, I don't know." Tommy exhaled his breath with a groan. "She was very, very good."

"Listen. Campbell figures the clan's crippled, what with two of the Shelby brothers arrested. But he's blind." Arthur stole a look behind him to make sure the guards were preoccupied, then gripped his brother's collar through the bars and whispered, almost spitting with intensity, into his ear. "We've got a plan. Tonight at ten, the guards change shifts. The new ones will have spent some time at the pub—only one drink each, mind you, they're disciplined fellows—but we've arranged for the barmaid to put sedative in their drinks. By midnight, they'll be dead asleep, and I'll send Jeremiah to get you three out. Got it?"

"Jesus, let go," Tommy gasped, and his head lolled on the ground when released from Arthur's grasp. The blood from his wound has thoroughly seeped through his shirt front, Arthur could now see. He reached over and felt the heat rising off his brother's neck. Tommy was wheezing slightly, and his eyes were glazed over with pain.

"It's infected?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"I'm sorry for wasting the liquor." Tommy started to chuckle, then gave up, breathing shallowly. Slowly, he pulled himself upright, leaning against the grimy wall.

"John and Curly already know." Arthur stood up heavily, his hand delving into his coat pocket before withdrawing guiltily, empty-handed. "I'm sorry, Tommy. They took my stuff when I came in."

"I'll be fine."

Arthur started to walk away, then paused, hesitating. "You take care of yourself, okay? Until midnight." He took off before Tommy could reply, his boots scuffing loudly on the ground. Tommy closed his eyes, but the ongoing phantasm of brown and red mixing together continued flickered across the canvas. By the time he fell asleep, he had already killed a dozen Germans. Their remains piled up knee-high, walling him into a single spot, and there he stood transfixed. When another moving corpse launched itself at him, he shoved his rifled into the man's chest and fired, and both of them crumpled under the explosion of gunfire and sparks, blood-soaked bullets falling defeatedly to the ground.

He woke, a bitter taste rising to his throat and threatening to spill out. Through his tiny cell window, he could see Birmingham in all her nightly bliss.

"John?" He listened tautly for the cell four spaces away, where he had seen his brother dragged. "Curly?"

"Shut up, you. No communicatin' between the prisoners." A sour-faced guard strode towards him, squinting in the darkness to make out the speaker. He stopped to light a torch on the wall, and the flare of light he looked frightfully lucid and firm of step. Tommy dragged himself up—had the guards already changed shifts? If so, the barmaid should be discharged. This man looked far more clear-headed than Tommy himself felt at the moment. "Please, what time is it? I need to—" he was cut off with the sharp jab of a rifle in his temple.

"No communicatin', you hear? To anyone. Inspector's orders."

Tommy stopped talking, massaging his head and feeling a dull roar pounding through his temples as the guard retreated back to his poker game. His skin was blisteringly hot, and he realized that he hadn't had water for nearly a day. No point in looking for help from the guards, he thought ruefully. They were the police inspector's hounds, out to get his blood. In any case, the church bell was tolling. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. A dark head emerged at his window, and he quickly clambered over to the far side of the cell.

"Jeremiah!" he breathed. "They're still awake."

"I know, Tommy. Change of plans. I've got me this beauty of a firebitch, it's going to blow up this here window." Jeremiah's grin shone fiercely in the backdrop of night. "I'll start with you, then go in a line to John and Curly. You'll have to be quick, boss. They'll hear the explosion from a mile away."

"Thank you, Jeremiah."

"At your service." He touched his fingers to his cap and bowed a little. Starlight became visible again through the window, and his voice grew muffled. "I'd suggest you back up now. Ready? Three—two—one!"

Tommy dived to the ground, protecting his head as the dynamite ripped through the prison walls, sending chunks of stone flying hither and dither through the air. When the initial burst had subsided, Thomas uncurled himself and set out to climb out of the much expanded hole now gaping in the wall. Reaching to haul himself up, he stifled a shriek and let go with his right arm, which dangled at a useless angle. Behind him, the guards were in a furor over where they had placed the key to Tommy's cell. "Let's just shoot the bastard!" a young voice piped out, but he was quickly hushed by others. Amidst the clanking of metal, he raised his head to the sky and shouted for help, panting with frustration at his weakness.

A pale grin emerged from the night, and then he was almost collapsed from relief when John hopped into his cell and lifted him onto his shoulders.

"Oooof, Tommy, you've gained a bit of weight from all the spoils of war!" he laughed cheekily, boosting him up higher into the steady arms of Jeremiah, who was careful to pull him up from above his elbows.

"At last!" The keen of key meeting lock and turning cut through the whooping of the guards. Turning, Tommy tried to grab for John's hands, but lost his brother to the thuds of rifle-butts. He heard John's voice, "Disappointed you caught the wrong Shelby, huh?" even as Jeremiah and Curly hauled him to his feet and supported him as he stumbled-ran through the streets, no glee in their escapade.


End file.
